


Pick Me To Pieces

by lovesickFrontman



Series: DreamSMP One Shots [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, But it's okay, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, He gets better, Murder, Pickaxe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29810592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesickFrontman/pseuds/lovesickFrontman
Summary: '“What the fuck is this, Techno.”The man (piglin?) spins around sharply, revealing the scarred snout, obsidian-strong tusks, and narrow maroon eyes that have haunted Quackity night after night. Totally in a nightmare way, not a gay way.(Somewhere along the months of neglectful, cruel engagement to Schlatt, certain lines in his brain had gotten crossed. Quackity knows it probably isn’t the best for his own well being and romantic future, but while pinned by Techno’s defensive-aggressive stare, he really doesn’t have time to psychoanalyze.)'Quackity wants to feel okay again more than anything.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Alexis | Quackity/Jschlatt
Series: DreamSMP One Shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2190702
Comments: 2
Kudos: 81





	Pick Me To Pieces

They meet in an underground chamber, hidden and rough and still dusty from excavation. Quackity was lucky to have been able to pick up Technoblade’s trail. With the amount of secret tunnels and secrets in general hidden underneath L’Manberg soil, he knows Techno could’ve been long gone by now. But he’s not. He’s standing there at the end of the tunnel, his familiarly unfamiliar piglin head bent over one of many chests and anxious mutterings barely audible from Quackity’s position at the entrance of the chamber.

 _No way out_ , Quackity reminds himself. No way out and Techno’s usually untouchable defense is shot through with holes. Holes shaped like that snuffing, brown horse staring unwaveringly at Quackity and that shiny, freshly-crafted iron armor. He disregards the horse. It was a good tool to get the tall man into L’Manberg. Now, it's personal.

He takes this moment to observe the hunched, broad figure of the man. All of Technoblade’s velvet red cloak and finely tailored clothing can do nothing to hide the sheer bulk and power of his form. Broad shoulders, wiry pink fur, a thin, curling tail, and those long, powerful legs leading down into deceptively small hooves.

Sucking in a sharp but soundless breath, Quackity realizes that if he crossed his eyes just so, Technoblade’s figure would be undeniably similar to Schlatt’s. Dead fiance Schlatt.

Quackity exhales quietly, tuning back into the moment to watch the other man rustle through the nondescript little chest with what, on anyone else, would be described as panic. 

( _Piglin? Would a piglin be considered a man?_ Quackity mentally shakes himself. It won’t matter when he’s dead).

His right hand strokes the handle of his diamond axe, he feels the weight of his netherite armor. Readjusting his wide stance on the solid stone floor, Quackity breaks the silence.

“What the fuck is this, Techno.”

The man (piglin?) spins around sharply, revealing the scarred snout, obsidian-strong tusks, and narrow maroon eyes that have haunted Quackity night after night. Totally in a nightmare way, not a gay way.

(Somewhere along the months of neglectful, cruel engagement to Schlatt, certain lines in his brain had gotten crossed. Quackity knows it probably isn’t the best for his own well being and romantic future, but while pinned by Techno’s defensive-aggressive stare, he really doesn’t have time to psychoanalyze.)

It's silent in the chamber for a second.

“What the hell are you doing here.” Quackity demands again, insistently breaking the moment of tense stillness.

Technoblade shifts, right hand coming down to hold onto the handle of the pickaxe at his side previously concealed by that uppity royal red cloak. 

“It’s, ah,”, he laughs nervously, tone strangely personable and charming despite the tense atmosphere, “It’s not what it looks like.”

Quackity’s eyes narrow, dark and accusing, mouth curled up into a slight snarl. He’s tired of charming villains and diverted questions. So long he’s been treading water, going nowhere yet struggling to keep himself afloat. His mouth tastes like pennies and acid, like Schlatt’s heart.

“How the **fuck** -”, he hisses, enraged at his plans foiled by the hands of others, “How the hell did that anvil not kill you.”

At this, the anxiety of the figure before him melts away, expression shifting into that smug fucking look that look so at home on Techno’s hell-born features.

One black nailed hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck, the other stays on the hilt of the pickaxe, pushing it downwards mockingly. Hoarse, gut-deep laughter sounds shockingly loud in the empty space between the two, sharply contrasting Quackity’s accusatory hisses.

“Did you really think, Quackity, that you could kill me that easily?”

Mocking. He’s mocking Quackity. Quackity really should’ve expected that. Despite narrowly escaping death and being trapped at a dead end with nothing but Dream-gifted armor and an iron pickaxe, Techno still manages to look down on Quackity and _laugh._

A memory strikes Quackity. It’s of Schlatt, leaned back in the CEO-sized leather chair in his office, warm sunset lighting making his normally rugged features ever so slightly softer. Quackity is standing to the side of his desk, hands clasped comfortingly together and held at his chest as Schlatt rambles on about this policy or that mandate. It’s almost calm, almost peaceful before Schlatt’s mellow, chocolate brown eyes shift to regard Quackity and gain that sharp edged cruelty. The worst part is it's not even a special cruelty saved solely for Quackity. He’s seen that look in the horned man’s eyes dozens of times before as he cuts down all those around him with casual ease.

Suddenly, Quackity feels a lot smaller.

“How did you do it?” 

Quackity’s voice comes out weak, confused. What the fuck. He kicks himself mentally. Subconsciously, he tilts his head and leans forward.

“Wha- How did you even do that?”

“You think death can stop me, Quackity?” Technoblade gloats. When he says it like that Quackity can’t help but believe him.

Except, no. Technoblade _has_ to be able to die. He has to be able to die because if he can’t, if he can’t die, then neither can Quackity’s nightmares. If Quackity can’t purge the Earth of Technoblade, the threat he poses will always exist. ( _Total victory is the only option_ , Quackity reminds himself, fist tightening on the handle of his axe, _and it will happen today_.)

Oblivious to Quackity’s internal conflict, Techno pauses and his hands move to cross brusquely in front of his chest. Quackity has no illusions about the fact that despite his hands being removed from his weapon, Technoblade is no less of a threat.

“You know- You know what, you know what? I’ve got a lot to say. I was gonna say it at the trial but we got a little bit interrupted.”

His voice is angry now, irritated and gruff and so, so familiar. Quackity swallows thickly and clenches and loosens his hands, one still at the handle of the axe, one loose at his side.

“You know, I tried convincing you guys that government,” the bigger man splutters, outraged, “that government was not the answer. That government was actually the cause of all your problems, Alright?” 

He paces sharply back and forth across the small room, looking now more than ever like a trapped animal. He was all aloof calculation while standing in the hangman’s platform with an anvil poised so far above his head; but here, with Quackity, he is all barely leashed power and the promise of violence.

“I tried to convince you guys by fighting alongside you as brothers and you just cast me aside, you **used** me.” Techno accuses, turning sharply once again to point damningly right at Quackity’s chest. Despite himself, Quackity jumps slightly, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted in displeasure.

“I tried to use force, but you _still_ formed a government. And when I went into hiding,” he pauses there, slowing down, “When I retired, when I _swore off violence_? You hunted me down. You hurt my friends.”

Quackity summons that dark, cold demeanor he had adopted at the start of the conversation, shaken all thoughts of sentimentality.

“You don’t understand, Techno. You don’t understand what we’re trying to build here Techno.”

Technoblade opens his mouth to speak, but Quackity cuts him off.

“This is not a simple anarchy thing, Techno. This is what you don’t understand, right?” Quackity coaxes, his voice almost sweet as he takes one small step towards Techno, who has stopped and is watching the smaller man warily.

“Techno, you really think I give a shit about the Withers?” he whispers, lighter than a feather. He takes another step closer. At this distance he can hear the soft huff of Technoblade’s exhale and smell the musty, animal scent that always seems to cling to the other man.

“No, no,” soft, gentle, decisive, “You are on the hit list, Techno, you’re on the fucking hit list.”

The atmosphere shifts.

“What hit list.” Technoblade responds seriously, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His hand is back on his pickaxe. Quackity wonders if he’s nervous, wonders if Techno knows what being nervous means.

“I’m building a country here, what we have out there is a country”

Quackity sounds it out as if he’s speaking to a child, sounds it out in the slightly condescending manner that he associates with cigarette smoke and curled horns. 

“And what we need here is organization and power,” Quackity’s human, dark eyes lock onto Techno’s, “I don’t care how long it fucking takes me or what I have to do to get you, Techno.”

He takes another step forward, Techno doesn’t step back. “I’m going to fucking kill you.” Quackity relishes in the promise. “I am going to kill you, Technoblade.” 

(And if he can’t, he knows he’s going to die trying.)

“I just have one question, Quackity” Technoblade’s low, gravelly voice matches Quackity’s in its softness.

“What do you have for me?”

“Do you think _you’re_ enough to kill me?” 

That damnable condescension is back and it's enough to make Quackity’s vision flash red and his blood boil. That one moment before he spoke, that one question, it almost felt as if the two of them were standing on equal ground.

(As much as Quackity hates it, despises his desire with a burning passion, he knows that he’s always held admiration towards Technoblade. If that great man, that legendary warrior looked at Quackity and saw an equal, maybe then Quackity could be freed from that accented, mocking voice in the back of his head telling him that ‘You’re not gonna amount to shit, shugs.’)

“Even unarmed, with iron armor, do you really think you can take me?” 

“Oh, I do.”

There’s a pause, thick and giddy with the promise of bloodlust. Quackity licks his lips and bounces on the balls of his feet, eyes wide and eager.

“You know what?” 

Techno’s mouth twitches, fighting off a grin as his eyes stay locked with Quackity’s own. Quackity places his right foot slightly forward and bends his knees. Techno squares his shoulders.

“Lets fucking find out you son of a bitch” 

And with this statement, Quackity lunges forward, axe at the ready only to meet the empty space where Techno just was. Wheeling around unsteadily, Quackity finds Technoblade already across the room at the narrow entrance Quackity had just abandoned. For a sickening second, Quackity thinks he’s going to run away.

Instead, Techno whirls around, cobblestone in hand as he builds a slap-dash barrier in between him and Quackity, stalling for time as his other hand reaches into his cape and withdraws a bright pink potion. 

“No, no, now you’re fucking building”, Quackity loudly whines, lunging back towards the entrance and fumbling for his own pickaxe, aware of the sounds of glass bottles breaking and blood rushing through his ears.

Breaking free, Quackity aims a downward swing at a slightly crouched Technoblade, who dodges out of the way, pickaxe in hand.

“Psyched” the piglin mocks, dodging yet another powerful swing of Quackity’s axe.

“Oh fuck you!” Quackity curses, words flying unfiltered out of his mouth as he feels Technoblade’s pick land with a jarring _clang_ on the armored side of his ribs.

He winces, making an aborted motion to grab his side as his ribs ache to the rapid beat of his heart. Even without the potions, Techno hits like a beast unchained, like a bright pink war machine running on blood.

“Oh now you have to use potions you motherfucker-” 

Quackity taunts, landing a glancing blow with his axe before the backside of Techno’s pickaxe hooks him on his right side, forcing him into a turn before a boot plants solidly on Quackity’s back, sending him sprawling to the floor a few feet away.

Quackity quickly flips onto his back crawling backwards and trying to draw himself to his feet to no avail as Techno stalks forward, iron screeching against the stone floor as he drags his pickaxe.

He looks like hellfire and damnation and every little sin Quackity used to pray away.

(He couldn’t stop the pang of arousal that scorched his gut if he tried.)

“I have a pickaxe and I’ll put it through your teeth,” Technoblade growls lowly, knocking Quackity’s axe out of his hand and sending it flying across the hallway to clang to a stop towards the deconstructed wall.

“I have a **pickaxe** ,” he menacingly repeats, bringing the top of the pickaxe down like a stake into the exposed inner elbow of Quackity’s armor.

Quackity howls, back arching up off the floor in agony as he feels the bones of his right elbow shatter. He lashes out with his feet, catching Technoblade in the stomach and sending him staggering back a few feet.

Crawling backwards with one arm, elbow and ribs and the head of his head ringing with pain, he watches his executioner approach, left elbow propped up behind him and right hanging limply.

Quackity stares in horror as Technoblade winds his pickaxe back, shiny and clean and poised directly. at. Quackity’s. face.

  
  


“And I’ll **put it through your teeth, Quackity**!”

  
  


Pain explodes across Quackity’s face, fresh and broiling and bleaching all thoughts from his brain aside from toe-curling, shrieking torture.

He’s not sure how long he floats in that space, how long it takes before his senses come back online and he realizes he’s facing the stone grey ceiling and the left side of his side is nothing but agony.

He chokes on the sickly iron taste pooling in his throat, jackknifing off the floor into a sitting hunch as bright crimson blood splatters out of his mouth and onto his apron-covered lap. As his eyes (-no, _eye_ , he realizes with horror) refocuses, he can see little white stars in the mess of crimson like marshmallows in hot chocolate.

They’re teeth, he realizes. Teeth and fragments of what was once teeth.

His left hand shoots up to touch his face and he only grazes the deep, horrible, grotesque gash that splits the left side of his face before he whimpers in pain, haze saturating his brain.

He blinks with the eye that can still blink and notices the iron tipped boots standing right in front of his own splayed legs. Quackity looks up and meets the focused, pinpoint, red red **red** gaze of Technoblade.

(All of the sudden, he knows he _cannot_ give up cannot give in.)

“You have done **so** much fucking damage to everything we’ve been building all a-fucking-long Techno,” Quackity spits, words wet, slurred, and tormenting as he tries to force his weak, shaking legs to move.

Technoblade watches on calmly, silently, savoring the scene and the bloodshed like a fine wine, bloodlust dripping like pearled jewelry from every curve and angle. 

“- and if there’s one PVP I’m planning to win its this one, baby.”

(He can't give up, he can’t lose. This fight will end in death today and Quackity doesn’t give a **fuck** whose.)

Technoblade hoists the pale pickaxe again, one side drenched and dripping crimson, Quackity’s crimson. His eyes glitter with something unreadable as he smoothly tilts the pickaxe over his shoulder, preparing for an overhead blow.

Quackity feels tears well up in his right eye, thoughts desperate and blank.

(He feels like he deserves this. Right back at the mercy of some cruel, handsome man. _God, I need help_ , some corner of his mind chuckles bitterly)

“C’mon, lets go, lets go, lets-”

**_Thunk_ ** **.**

* * *

Technoblade pants with something other than exertion as he stands over the body. Blood is spattered down his front and on his face and all over the dim, dusty hallway. He sticks out his tongue unthinkingly to catch a droplet running down the side of his snout. It tastes like pennies. He closes his eyes.

“I gotta-”, his voice trails off.

The voices have settled down into a warm, loving praise, endorphins fluttering pleasantly through Technoblade’s veins as he basks in the warmth of long-awaited satisfaction.

Swallowing heavily, Technoblade allows himself to float in the haze of the afterglow for a few seconds more.

He had taken life, taken _blood_ from the very man who dragged him from retirement, who threatened Carl and Phil. After so long of abstaining, of holding back and biting his tongue, he was no longer collared. Never again.

“I gotta get out of here.” he mutters nervously, reminding himself that he, and more importantly _Carl_ , is still in enemy territory.

He opens his eyes to find the body gone, dissolved except for the gore covered pickaxe left on top of a pile of Quackity’s belongings and the crimson turning rust splatters on the walls and floor.

 _He didn't fight well, necessarily_ , Technoblade mused as he shifted through the pile, shirking his iron armor in favor of the recently vacated netherite ones. _But he did provide me with exactly what I needed_.

Blood still stains his ivory white shirt.

* * *

Quackity’s consciousness floats in the abyss for an unknowable, infinite moment before it snaps back into life with the sound of a button clicking.

He opens his eyes to bright green grass and gentle blue sky.

He tongues the left side of his face, tastes the absence of his canines and the warped grimace of his smile. He covers his left eye with his hand and his vision doesn’t change. He feels the scarred-over canyon carved though his face.

The world around him is bright and sunny, birds chirping and the scent of flowers in the air as if Quackity didn’t just go head to head with his nightmare, his own inadequacy, and _lose_. Rage bubbles forth, paired with the aching pang of rejection and despair that never fails to bring him back to that day.

(He feels the weight of Schlatt’s hands on his shoulders and his fists on his face, reeking of alcohol and disgust. He hears the sound of Schlatt’s pained wheezing and whimpers around the concerned mutters of ‘Schlatt?’ as he struggles to move his tongue to say his last words beyond ‘I don’t feel too good’ and-)

Quackity drops his face into the palms of his hands and sobs.

He feels like he’ll never be free again.

**Author's Note:**

> Another addition to the series!  
> My brain has just been on fire with ideas for writing all sorts of things for the DreamSMP fandom and more. Who knew that after years of reading fan fiction, it would be rp!Tommy getting beat to death that would spark me to finally start writing.  
> Anyways, I'm thinking that the next one shot would be a KarlxSapnapxQuackity Hurt/Comfort piece that would kind of unpack everything Quackity's been dealing with.  
> As always, thank you so much for reading, it really blows me away that I can share this with people and have them go out of their way to read My work.  
> If you enjoyed this, feel free to give Kudos, it really helps motivate me to create more stuff for me and others to enjoy! ::)


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